Acclimation
by Firebirdie
Summary: Snapshots from Chapter 1 of the Sith Warrior storyline.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Fluffy gen. I just really love the LS Warrior/Vette friendship, okay, I have a lot of feels about them D:

Content warning for standard Star Warsy badness, mostly references to torture.

**Acclimation**

**o.O.o**

**i. korriban**

"So . . . we fight our way to a heap of skulls, take one, dunk it in a pool of blood, and bring it back to the creepy overseer lady?"

"That's the plan, unless . . ." Evren edges sideways until Overseer Ragate's gleaming stare becomes visible around the door frame at the other end of the room, then retreats a few steps and shakes his head. "No luck. She's still out there. Watching."

Vette laughs, uneasy. "Great. That's really_—_okay, seriously, why would you even _have_ a blood pool in the basement?"

Evren thinks about it for a moment, then sighs. "To be honest, I don't want to know. I suspect it's all part of the Academy aesthetic, but it does seem to be a little . . . much."

Vette snorts. "I say, you know what would really bring this room together?" she says in a mock Imperial accent. She seems to catch herself, then, eyeing him warily, muscles tensing in anticipation of pain, aura going grey and small.

He shrugs and says, "This raises another uncomfortable question. Where does the blood come from?"

Vette relaxes incrementally. She taps her chin with a finger. "Fluffy animals, small children . . . nah, too inefficient. My money's on acolytes who don't show up for lessons on time."

"Oh, is _that_ what happens to the washouts?"

"You got a twisted sense of humor, Sith."

"You went there first; yours is hardly any better," he retorts, failing to fight back a smile. "And anyway, it also neatly solves the problem of the skull heap of uncertain provenance."

"Ugh, whatever, let's get this over with already," Vette says, throwing up her hands as her Force signature clears and brightens.

**o.O.o**

**ii. dromund kaas**

"He keeps a torture chair in his office. In his _office_. There's an actual torture chair in his actual, personal office."

"Most Dark Lords have at least one," Evren says, awkwardly.

Vette grimaces. "Sith interior decorating—the gift that keeps on giving. Blood pools, skull heaps, ugly holo-sculptures, statues of people being crushed by despair or by the surrounding architecture. And now torture chairs. Amazing. You people are _insane._"

". . . I will not dispute that."

"Yeah. Good call."

**o.O.o**

**iii. balmorra**

They've got a Resistance encampment to infiltrate, neither of them particularly wants to just slaughter everyone in sight, and there's no way they can just sneak in. Time to dust off all those old grifting lessons from Risha and her dad. Vette rounds on Evren and says, "I'm doing the talking. The minute you open your mouth they'll start getting suspicious."

"What do you_—_ah. The accent." He pulls a face and says, "Whaddya mean, Vette?" in something that might pass for Corellian-flavored Basic if it didn't sound so strained.

She shakes her head. "Not buying it." Of the two of them, she's way better at imitation. More to the point, she naturally speaks Basic with the rough-and-tumble cadence of a spacer_—_she sounds nothing like an Imperial, to say nothing of the fact that she's Twi'lek, and therefore firmly on the Empire's "kick while down" list. "Oh, and mess up your hair, Ev."

"What? _Why?_"

"Because it's a fast and easy way to make you not look like you." She reaches over and ruffles his head before he can swat her away, and he glares at her from beneath his bangs like she's just betrayed him. Vette rolls her eyes. "Come on, it's not that bad."

"It's untidy," he mutters.

"Oh my gods, you're turning into Lieutenant Quinn."

His eyes widen. He scrubs both hands through his hair, leaving it a wild, tangled mess.

Vette laughs in his face.

**o.O.o**

**iv. nar shaddaa**

And it had all been going so well.

"Damn, damn, damn-damn-damn-damn-_damn!_" Vette sings out, sprinting towards the docking bay as blasterfire peppers her heels. She can hear the Jedi and Republic shoulders shouting. Lots of "Get them!" and "Shoot to kill!"_—_apparently they're not taking any chances. Kinda annoying, especially since she and Evren were mostly just wandering around when this whole debacle started. Mostly. There may have been a little bit of slicing Cartel holofrequencies in Republic-controlled territory to get a better idea of what the Shadow Syndicate was up to, but still. Touchy, touchy.

"Split up!" Evren snaps out, twisting around to deflect the Pubs' latest salvo away from them.

Vette spots a stack of cargo crates. Perfect. She puts on a last burst of speed and dives behind them, rolling into cover and drawing her blasters. She presses her back to the crates. Peers around far enough to see Evren pulling one of his stupidly fancy Force jumps_—_he lands at a crouch within spitting distance of their pursuers, lightsabers humming.

The Pubs draw up short as the Jedi leading them frantically signal to hold fire.

Evren tilts his head to the side. "Whatever happened to 'shoot to kill'?" he asks mildly.

The lead trooper opens his mouth. But the Jedi do what Jedi do_—_they strike some dramatic poses and then start yakking. "Surrender," says the short one, a skinny Zabrak guy with a purple lightsaber. "We are willing to show mercy."

"Now I'm confused_—_do you want me alive or dead?"

"Dead," mutters the lead trooper.

"Wait, Sergeant," says the other Jedi, a burly pasty-faced human in green. "Anyone can be redeemed. We cannot ignore any chace at a peaceful solution." She deactivates her lightsaber and half-raises her hands. "Please_—_turn away from the darkness. Come with us. We can help you find peace in the Light."

"Now is _really_ not a good time_—_"

"Let go of your fears," the human says earnestly. "Only with clarity will your true path be revealed."

"Is pompousness a communicable disease?" Evren mutters. "Because it seems to run rampant among the Jedi ranks."

"Do not test our patience, Sith," growls the Zabrak.

"But it's so much fun!"

Vette winces as her holocomm gives a muffled beep. She hunkers behind the crates and activates it. Quinn pops up, looking stiff and formal as ever. "Kinda busy here," Vette says.

"You missed your scheduled check-in. What is going on?"

"Got a little sidetracked by the angry Pubs trying to shoot at us, but his darksome lordiness has it under control. Ish. For now."

Quinn looks very noble and weary and put-upon. "Ah."

Vette glances around, ignoring the rapidly-deteriorating conversation with the Pubs in favor of checking out the landscape. She nods to herself. "Got an idea_—_bring the ship around to the Deucalon Spaceport south walkway, lower the ramp, then hover. We'll deal with these guys, then hop on board and get back to Mezenti."

"Shall I warm up the turbolasers?"

"Can't hurt, but don't shoot just yet."

"I question your judgement, but_—_"

"But?" Vette prompts, giving Quinn a hard, flat look.

He sighs. "But I will take it into consideration. ETA three minutes. Quinn out."

"Yeah, love you too," Vette grumbles, shutting off the holo. She peeks over the crates and smirks. There's a whole lot of argument, finger-jabbing, and saucy grinning going on. Ev's gone and nudged them into a pissing contest between regular Republic military and Jedi. Vette's impressed.

"I have _had_ it with your total disregard for procedure, Master Jedi!" the sergeant's shouting. "We can't afford to risk the mission!"

The Zabrak is rapidly losing his cool. "Executing a prisoner is_—_"

"He hasn't even surrendered!"

"But if I did, would you still try to shoot me?" Evren asks, pouting.

"I'm considering it right now," says the sergeant.

"Let us handle this!" the human says. "Sergeant, this is Jedi business. You must step aside and allow us to_—_"

"With all due respect, ma'am, _hells no,_ I am not letting you endanger my squad and our delivery schedule just so that you can avoid killing _one Sith,_ who was in _our territory_ screwing with _our comm channels_!"

"A valid point," Evren chirps. "Besides which, you have no guarantee that I will not turn on you the instant your guard is down."

"That's it," snarls the sergeant. "Open fire!"

The resultant flurry of laserfire and lightsabers leaves smeary trails of color burned across Vette's retinas. Evren bursts out of the fray with a few new scorch marks on his armor and a wild grin, trailing incensed Republic soldiers and spluttering Jedi.

Vette pops out of cover and starts shooting as she retreats towards the open-sided walkway. One minute until Quinn shows up with the ship.

They've got this, easy.

**o.O.o**

**v. tatooine**

"I've commed Quinn," Evren says, perching on the bar stool next to Vette's. "He has elected to stay aboard the ship for the time being. Something about preferring not to associate with criminal scum, and possibly also concern for his complexion."

"Aaand Captain Stiff strikes back. He wants to be boring, I say we let him. And in the meantime, _we_ get some long-awaited R&amp;R," Vette says. She waves over the bartender, then turns back to him. "You want anything? Corellian Crash for me."

"Just water," he says, and the bartender's antennae twitch in acknowledgement.

Vette looks mournful. "You're no fun."

"Impaired judgement, Force powers, and Sith training generally aren't, either," Evren says quietly.

". . . Oh. That_—_would make sense. Sorry."

"It's fine." He rubs at the back of his neck, head ducked, as the bartender slides their drinks across the counter.

Vette sips her drink and eyes him sidelong. She pokes him in the arm. "Hey, if nothing else, we survived Yonlach the windbag and his incredible blabbermouth apprentice."

He sighs. "We did."

"I hear a 'but' coming."

"For a moment, I thought he'd killed you."

Vette shrugs. "Hey, I'm alive and kicking. And Jedi don't usually go straight for the kill. Thought that was one of the reasons you Sith figure they're useless."

"Most of them are," Evren says dryly, "but I still worry."

**o.O.o**

**vi. home**

Long speeder ride back to the _Maelstrom_, longer day beforehand. Vette's still half-asleep when they arrive; she's vaguely aware of being carefully picked up and carried into the ship.

Evren deposits her on her bed and tugs the sheets to her chin. Vette curls up instinctively but keeps her eyes closed. She feels a light touch on her shoulder, and then a low voice murmurs, "Love you."

She falls asleep right after, but she remembers anyway.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Bonus chapter!

**o.O.o**

**epilogue—morning**

"You said you loved me," Vette says.

Evren fumbles the skillet as he attempts to flip an omelet. Still-runny eggs and various chopped vegetables scatter over the galley floor, and the skillet bounces off his—mercifully armored—left boot with a clang. He swears, shuts off the stove, and summons the skillet back to hand with the Force. Carefully, he places it back atop the burner.

. . . Yes, he's avoiding eye contact with Vette, who's still waiting in the doorway, but she was _not_ supposed to be awake enough to remember that—hells, he could scarcely believe he _said_ it even as the words left his mouth, but—

"Erm," he says, articulately. He rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the shorter strands at the back of his head, and attempts to marshal some kind of response.

"Look, I just—I don't know if I'm totally off-base, here, but I get the feeling you didn't mean that in an _I want to get into your pants_ kind of way," says Vette.

"I—yes. That is, I do not want to get into your pants," Evren babbles.

"I mean, if you—but you don't, so—what did you mean, though, anyway? Just for clarification."

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. This is actually a conversation that they are having. Right now. While half-cooked egg congeals under his feet and glues him to the deck plating. All right, then. "You're amazing," he blurts out. "You are my best friend and I do not want to even contemplate what my life would have been without you in it, but I'm not . . . attracted to you that way."

Vette looks mollified, though still uncertain. "So . . . no more than what we've got going now."

"What more is there?" he says. He lets his hand fall to his side and tries to keep his voice level. "I don't—I don't fall in love. I don't _want_ anyone. I'm, er, aromantic and asexual and I just. I care for you so much that it hurts, sometimes, and as long as you're here I—" He clears his throat. "You are brilliant, you are the bravest person I know, and I am truly grateful for your friendship. That's what I meant."

". . . Okay."

"Okay?" he echoes. He can't read her tone and he can't read her Force signature through his own panic and if she—

Vette smiles, warm and open. "Yeah. And for the record? Love you too, big guy."

**o.O.o**

_end_


End file.
